


Fling Thing

by shessocold



Category: AC/DC, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, Bisexuality, Crossover, Drinking & Talking, First Kiss, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Marauders' Era, Muggle London, Muggle POV, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, The 1970s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-12 12:40:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12959406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shessocold/pseuds/shessocold
Summary: Angus bums a smoke off the wrong person.





	1. Chapter 1

“Mate, can you spare a smoke?”

“Sure thing, mate. Here you g–” the bloke started, and then he did a double take. “Wait, are you–?” 

“Yeah,” said Angus. “Nice to meet you.” he added, with a smile. 

The other guy was grinning incredulously, the shadows on this face harsh under the glare of the streetlamp, the cigarette he had promised Angus still held between his fingers. He was a lot younger than Angus had initially thought. 

“No way, this is so cool. How come you are here in London?” 

“We're, er, recording an album, actually. The whole band relocated here. It's been fun, you know. We're enjoying the city.” 

The other guy was still grinning. He was decently tall, and he had a posh accent that Angus, looking at his clothes, really hadn't expected. Angus felt a surge of instinctive dislike for the whole 'degenerate aristocrat pretending like he's broke' act, but he forced himself to give the poor sod the benefit of the doubt. He seemed nice enough, for now. 

“So, what's your name?” he asked, once it was clear that the other guy wasn't going to say anything else. The question seemed to shake him out of his reverie, and he finally handed Angus the cigarette. 

“It's, er, Serious.” 

“You've got to be kidding me,” said Angus, unlit cigarette hanging from his lower lip. “What kind of name is that?” 

“It's a family name,” explained the posh kid, his lip slightly curled. The gesture instantly obliterated all and any goodwill Angus had had towards him. “The brightest star in the sky, some shit like that. It was my great-grandfather's name.” 

“Wait, a star? How do you spell that?” 

The kid – Sirius – told him. Angus was not sure whether the fact that his name was not actually 'Serious' made it worse or better. He tried to imagine what Malcolm would have said if he'd known he was hanging around with some fucking public school kid named after a fucking _star_. Nothing nice, that was for sure. He finally managed to light his cigarette. 

“Alright, so, er, do you want to grab a pint?” said Sirius, and Angus was caught so off guard that he didn't manage to decline properly. 

“I, er, don't really drink, you know. No alcohol,” he said, coughing out a puff of smoke. 

“Oh. And what do you drink usually?” 

“Tea, mostly. Coca-cola. Milk?” offered Angus, his mouth getting ahead of his brain. “Sometimes juice.” 

“Well, I can make you a cup of tea if you come back to mine,” said Sirius, with a shrug. “I live just around the corner.” 

** 

“So, do you live here alone?” Angus asked, looking around the living room of Sirius' flat while Sirius himself was in the kitchen making tea. It surely didn't look like a bird was also living there, he thought, taking in the piles of clothing in the corner of the room (was that black thing some sort of _cloak_?) and other assorted clutter. 

“I do, yeah. My uncle left me the place, and I've been living here when I'm not in school,” shouted back Sirius. 

“School? How old are you, exactly?” 

“Eighteen. This is my last year,” Sirius said, walking into the room with a trayful of very nice china. “I'm taking my newts – I'm taking my A-Levels next summer.” 

“Alright,” said Angus, now slightly worried that the kid might not be all there, mentally. _Newts_. “Cheers to that.” 

The tea cups were the weirdest Angus had ever seen, obviously very fine and expensive but molded in the shape of some sort of... flower? Flame? Some kind of ornate nonsense. Angus doubted his mother would have approved of them. They weren't particularly easy to drink from, either. At least the tea was decent. 

“And where is it that you go to school?” he asked, because he wanted more details for when he was going to tell the story to his mates. “Eton?” 

Sirius hesitated. 

“Er, no. It's a place up in Scotland, actually.” 

“Scotland, huh? I was born in Glasgow.” 

“Oh, that's brilliant,” said Sirius, who was sipping his tea as primly as if the bloody Queen had been in the room. “Scotland is so beautiful.” 

“Yeah, mate, not the part of Scotland I come from,” replied Angus, feeling contrary. The kid's face fell a bit, and Angus felt vaguely sorry for being so harsh to him. 

“Are you from around here?” he asked, as a way to move the conversation forward. 

Sirius nodded. 

“From London, yes. My whole family still– whoa, what was that?” he cried, jumping up from his armchair. Angus turned around, but he couldn't see anything worth shouting about outside the big window behind him. He looked at Sirius, who was now – improbably – holding some sort of small knobbly stick. _Alright, so I followed a madman home and now I'm going to get fucking murdered with a fucking stick_ , Angus thought, trying to assess his chances in a fight. The kid was at least a head taller than he was, but he was still so distracted by whatever he thought he had seen outside that maybe, if he snuck out really quickly and really quietly... 

“The street is crawling with death eaters,” Sirius said, finally turning to face Angus. He had gone very pale. “Fucking crawling with them.” 

Angus swallowed and got up from the couch. 

“Look, mate,” he said, trying to keep his tone light and appeasing. “It was great meeting you and the tea was excellent, but I think I should really go now. I have to get up very early tomorrow and–” 

Sirius shook his head. 

“You can't leave,” he said, his tone final. “If they realize you were here with me, they'll kill you.” 

“Right,” said Angus, cursing the minute he had decided to go out for the evening. “Mate, there's no one out there. I don't know what's wrong with you, but I promise it's all in your hea– _what the fuck_. Did you fucking see that? There he goes again!” 

Outside Sirius' second floor window, plain as day in the orange glow of the streetlamps, a masked figure in a cloak had just _flown_ by. Riding a fucking _broomstick_. Angus felt a bit faint, and then he realized. 

“What did you put in my tea, you sick fuck?” he snarled at Sirius. “You fucking drugged me!” 

“I did not do any such thing,” Sirius said, coolly. “Now calm down and let me explain, or I'll have to stun you.” he added, waving his stick in a vaguely threatening manner. Angus saw no alternative, so he sat back down. 

“Alright,” Sirius began, stick still held up. “So, I'm a wizard.” 

His tone was so matter-of-fact that Angus couldn't help but laugh. 

“Right,” he said, before he had time to think better of it, “and I'm a fucking mermaid.” 

Sirius blinked. 

“I really am a wizard. Look,” he said, and with a flick of his stick he turned the teapot into a small white rabbit. 

Angus looked at the rabbit, then back at Sirius, then back at the rabbit again, and then he did the only sensible thing he could think of: he fainted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AC/DC didn't really start working on Highway to Hell in London until April '79, by which time Sirius Black would have long graduated from Hogwarts. For my convenience, this takes place somewhere over Christmas break in late '77/early '78.
> 
> YEAH I KNOW THIS CHANGE IS WHAT MAKES SUSPENSION OF DISBELIEF EXTREMELY HARD, I'm sorry.


	2. Chapter 2

“Here, I made you a fresh cup of tea.”

Angus blinked slowly, confused. He'd had the weirdest dream, something about rabbits and flying broomstricks. He squinted against the strong light from the ceiling lamp, waiting for the source of the tea offering to come fully into focus. And then suddenly he remembered. 

“You!” he shouted at the bloke, who got so startled that he sent the cup flying. “You bloody _freak_! Get away from me!” 

Sirius raised his hands, slowly. 

“Look, I've got no wand,” he said, reassuringly. “Besides, I would never hurt you. I promise.” 

Angus wasn't particularly convinced. 

“Let me go,” he said, trying to mask the terror he felt and sound authoritative. “People will come looking for me if you don't,” he added, and he supposed it was true enough. His main concern was whether he'd still be alive when they found him. 

“They would never be able to find you here,” said Sirius impatiently, like the idea was ludicrous. “Trained wizards wouldn't either. I'm sorry, that sounded threatening, didn't it? What I mean is you're safe here. The death eathers can't get past the charms I've set up.” 

“What is a death eater?” Angus heard himself ask, as if entertaining the concept didn't mean fully giving in to insanity. “Is it that thing that went flying past your window?” 

“Yeah. They're dark wizards who work for you know who... well, no, you don't know who 'you know who' is. Voldemort. He's a very dangerous wizard, very powerful, and he likes nothing better than torturing muggles like you.” 

“What did you just call me?” asked Angus, fairly convinced that it had to be a height-related insult. 

“Muggle,” repeated Sirius. “It means you're not a wizard. The death eaters think your kind should be enslaved, and wizards allowed to rule the land. They kill people like you for sport. You have no chances against them.” 

There was a brief pause. 

“What a cheerful prospect,” Angus said, eventually. “But why are they looking for me? What have I done to them?” 

“They're not looking for you, I don't think they even know you're here. They must be putting on a bit of a show, trying to intimidate me. That doesn't mean they won't have a bit of fun with you if they see you leave.” 

“But didn't you say you're a, er, wizard? What's their problem with you, then?” 

Sirius looked outraged. 

“Do I look like the kind of wizard who agrees with torture and murder?” he growled, fairly looming over Angus. _Yeah, a bit_ , Angus wanted to say, but he thought better of it. “I'm part of the resistance,” Sirius added, a sligthly fanatical glimmer in his eyes. “I fight against them.” 

“That's great,” Angus said. “So does that mean I will never be able to leave?” 

“Not until the death eaters leave, no,” said Sirius with a sigh. “I thought that maybe you could use the flu network, go over to James' or something, but I really don't think it would work for a muggle.” 

“Who's James?” asked Angus, deliberately choosing not to dwell upon the possible implications of the mysterious 'flu network'. “Is he a wizard too?” 

“Yeah, of course,” replied Sirius, sounding like Angus had wanted to make sure that James was not a pet hamster. “My best mate, from school. His folks are great, they let me move in with them when I ran away from home. But anyway, even if you could travel to their place, they live hundreds of miles from here, it would be no use to you. I bet the death eaters will leave long before daybreak anyway.” 

“Right,” said Angus. “Can I use your bathroom?” 

** 

In the bathroom, Angus stared at himself in the mirror. His face looked normal enough, if a bit greenish, and so did his hands, which he studied for a good couple of minutes while trying to remember how it was supposed to feel like if you were on an LSD trip. He was finally forced to conclude that he had not, after all, been secretly drugged. This left him with the dismal prospect that everything he thought he had seen happening – the flying broomstick, the rabbit which was really a teapot – had really happened. He felt queasy. Worse yet, this opened up the possibility that all the nonsense Sirius had been spouting about evil wizards and flying people who ate the dead might also be at least partially true. He found himself, absurd as it was, hoping that Sirius was really as good a wizard as he seemed to think he was. He sighed, turned the bathroom light off, and went back to the living room. 

“Feeling better?” Sirius asked, with a would-be reassuring smile. He had a very nice smile, Angus noticed, feeling suddenly weirdly self-conscious about his own missing tooth. He also noticed that the cup that had gotten smashed earlier was whole again, the stain vanished from the carpet. _Most likely_ literally _vanished_ , Angus thought, with a shudder. He found that he was glad it had happened while he was out of the room. He nodded. 

“Yeah, thanks. What are you drinking?” 

“Er, fire whisky,” said Sirius, tilting the glass in Angus' general direction. A wisp of smoke lifted from the surface of the amber liquid inside. 

“Can I have a bit of that?” 

“I thought you didn't drink?” 

“Just a sip, then. For me nerves.” 

Sirius grinned. 

“You can finish this, if you want. I don't have any more.” 

_He wasn't joking about the fire part_ , thought Angus, the heat from the liquor immediately spreading through his whole body until he felt like he was standing right in front of a fireplace. It was a glorious sensation, with none of the stinging and burning of regular whisky. He emptied the glass in two sips and then he sat down on the couch, feeling extremely at ease. 

“Did you like it?” inquired Sirius, his tone amused. 

Angus nodded, a lazy smile spreading on his face. 

“You know what, I should really let my brother know I'm not coming back for the night. He's going to worry if he doesn't hear from me. I don't suppose you have a phone... ?” 

“Nope,” confirmed Sirius, shaking his head. “But we can send him an owl, if you'd like.” 

“An _owl_?” Angus repeated. “What for?” 

“With a message,” said Sirius, like it should have been obvious. “Owls are very skilled letter carriers.” 

Angus briefly pictured Malcolm interacting with a barn owl that was wearing a postman's hat. 

“Ok, nevermind,” he said, after finally overcoming a fit of laughter. “I guess he's just going to assume I hit if off with some bird and I'm spending the night at her place.” 

“Right,” said Sirius, in a slightly curt tone. “Speaking of which, you can have my bed, if you want. I think I'm going to stand watch anyway.” 

“I'm not tired,” said Angus, who despite the absurdity and the danger of the situation had never felt more mellowed out in his entire life. “And your couch is really comfortable, I'm not getting up. I can keep you company, if you want.” 

Sirius grinned. 

“I can't believe you're drunk on half a finger of fire whisky.” 

“I'm not drunk!” 

“Yes, you are. You went from being as skittish as a fucking mouse to slurring your words into my couch pillows in a matter of minutes.” 

“Shut up, I'm just resting my eyes a little,” said Angus, whose face was indeed buried in the velvet of Sirius' couch. “I'll sit up straight again in a second.” 

“You remind me so much of Remus,” commented Sirius, affectionately. 

“Ok, now who's Remus?” 

“My, er, best friend,” said Sirius, hesitating for just a fraction of a second. “From school.” 

“I thought your best friend from school was James,” replied Angus suspiciously. “Are you just making this stuff up as you go? I should have you spell that weird made-up name of yours again, catch you off guard.” 

Sirius barked a laugh. 

“No, I swear I'm not. They're both my best mates,” he explained. “Peter too. We've all been friends since we were eleven, met on the school train in our first year. And there's nothing wrong with my name, it's not my fault if muggles are boring about the names they choose,” he added, haughtily. 

“It's not because we're boring mulges, it's that you're too fucking posh to be real,” said Angus, laughlingly. He was about to ask if Sirius' mum was the wizard Queen or something, but then he remembered what Sirius had said about having run away from home, and he figured family might be a sore subject for him. 

“So, this Remus, is he nice?” he asked instead. “Or do I need to get offended?” 

“He's great, and he can't hold his liquor either,” said Sirius with a grin. “Also you two have the exact same hair. Mind you, I'm not saying this last one is a compliment. I'm just striving for total disclosure here.” 

Angus laughed. 

“Oh, do sod off,” he said, his head feeling even heavier all of sudden. “My hair is perfectly nice.” he mumbled into the pillow, already half asleep, and just as he was starting to drift off for real he thought he heard Sirius agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing I'm doing to wizarding terms (not capitalizing stuff like Muggles and Death Eaters, misspelling Firewhisky, 'you know who' instead of You-Know-Who, etc.) is driving me insane, but how would Angus know better? Any feedback on that would be greatly appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

Angus woke up because the cosy effects of the fire whisky had run out, leaving him cold and slightly groggy. It was still dark out, and Sirius was in the kitchen – cooking, from the sound of it. On his way to checking up on him, Angus helped himself to another of his cigarettes.

“I didn't take you for someone who cooks,” he said, trying his best to ignore the way a chef's knife was spontaneously dicing a carrot at the far end of the counter. Sirius' head whipped round. 

“Merlin's beard, you gave me a fright,” he said, lowering his wand. “Try not to sneak up to me, next time, unless you fancy getting hexed to bits.” 

“I did not sneak up to you,” pointed out Angus, in a cloud of smoke. “I just walked in and talked to you. It's not my fault you were so focused on... is that _bacon_ you're frying?” 

“Yeah. Anything wrong with that... ?” 

“I figured wizards would eat something more, you know. Weird,” said Angus. “Also it's the middle of the night.” 

Sirius laughed. 

“ _Weird_ , he says. Did you expect me to have dragon steak for every meal? And it's not the middle of the night, it's half past ten. You were barely asleep for twenty minutes. And I haven't had any dinner.” 

“Wait, wait, did you say _dragon_?” asked Angus in a small voice. 

“Dragon meat is not very good if it's not cooked properly,” explained Sirius, spectacularly missing the point. “And I'm afraid I'm not much of a cook, we always had house elves growing up. Bangers and mash is my go-to. Speaking of which,” he added, and with a flick of his wand he made a handful of potatoes fly straight out of their own skins and into a pot, where the diced carrot joined them. The fire under the pot lit itself. Angus shook his head, put the cigarette out, turned right around and walked out of the kitchen. 

** 

“... and James is truly a great chaser,” concluded Sirius, spearing the last bit of sausage on his fork. “Honestly, he could probably go on to play for England eventually,” he added, beaming proudly. 

“So this sport... it's played on flying broomsticks, right? Like the one the dead eating bloke has?” 

“Death eater,” corrected Sirius. “And yeah, they're the same. There's nothing intrinsically sinister about a broomstick, loads of people love them, even just for transportation. Me, I've never been much of a flyer. But I do have a motorcycle.” 

“A motorcycle?” repeated Angus, slightly taken aback. “Like the ones normal people have?” 

Sirius grinned. 

“Yeah, a muggle motorcycle. I saw it in a muggle magazine and I thought it looked so cool, I had to buy it once I got the money. Mine is enchanted to fly, though.” 

“You lot read our magazines?” said Angus, who at this point in the evening found the idea slightly more ludicrous than the concept of a flying motorcycle. “What for?” 

“Well, not everyone does,” admitted Sirius. “Some are huge traditionalists. I started getting into muggle stuff because it used to drive my mother completely bonkers. She's not very much of a muggle fan. Don't get me wrong, she's not a follower of 'you know who' or anything, she's just... extremely strict. Ours is a very old family. My name got blasted out of the family tree tapestry when I ran away, apparently,” he bragged, even though his eyes looked suspiciously shiny for a second. “They've always liked my brother better anyway. _He_ got sorted into slitherin', like a proper black kid should.” 

“Ok, now you've lost me. Your brother is black? Slithering where?” 

Sirius laughed. 

“No, no, Black is our last name, Regulus is whiter than a sheet. And slitherin' – S-L-Y-T-H-E-R-I-N – is one of the four houses at Hogwarts. You know, my school. Everyone in my family had been getting sorted into Slytherin for centuries, until I came along and got sorted into Gryffindor with James and the others. My folks never really recovered from that... but I'm boring you.” 

“That's not true,” said Angus, reaching for a cigarette. Sirius' pack was almost empty, which in itself was frankly a scarier prospect than the masked arsehole circling the building on his flying broomstick. He made a mental note to ask whether cigarettes could be conjured out of thin air, a possible application of magic he felt he'd have no qualms about. “I'm just a bit overwhelmed by all these, you know, completely mental things you're telling me about. I mean the magical school stuff and the flying things, not the part about your family.” he clarified, fearing he'd come across the wrong way. “Is your brother older or younger than you? Do you get along?” 

“Younger, and we don't,” said Sirius, in a very cold voice. “Let's talk about something else.” he added, also reaching for a cigarette. He very deliberately ignored the lighter lying besides the pack and lit it with the tip of his wand instead, in what Angus felt was a way to get back at him for asking the wrong question about his brother. He looked very handsome even when he was scowling, Angus was surprised and slightly alarmed to find himself noticing. 

“Alright, I'm sorry,” said Sirius, probably mistaking Angus' private confusion for a reaction to his perceived rudeness. “I'm a bit touchy about my brother, but you couldn't possibly know that. You're very close to your brother, right?” 

“I actually have six of them, but yeah, Malcolm and I are really close,” confirmed Angus, who until a couple of minutes earlier had indeed wished that Malcolm could have been there to share the experience. “I also have a sister, Margaret.” 

“I have a cousin I really get along with,” offered Sirius. “A bit older than me. Andromeda. Married to a muggle-born, actually!” he said, looking really pleased with himself for being able to relate such a piece of information. “Very nice bloke, Ted. They have a little girl.” 

“What does 'muggle-born' mean?” 

“It's when neither one of your parents is a wizard or a witch, but you turn out magical anyway. It's not very common, but it happens sometimes. This girl Evans from school – James is crazy about her – is a muggle-born. Really talented witch, too. The opposite of muggle-born is, er, pureblood. That's what I am. James too,” he added quickly, like he was eager to share the burden of the vaguely Nazi sounding label with his friend. 

“And what do you call it when someone has a normal parent and a wizard parent?” 

“Well, that would be half-blood. Like Remus, for example,” said Sirius, and Angus could have sworn that he had blushed slightly. “His father is a wizard and his mother is a muggle woman. Lovely people.” 

Angus privately decided he didn't care much for this Remus fellow at all. 

“Ok, now tell me more about your motorcycle.” he urged, leaning in slightly. “Did you, er, enchant it yourself?”

** 

“Is that a tattoo?” Angus asked, during a lull in Sirius' extremely detailed explanation of the challenges involved in casting a permanent levitation charm on a piece of muggle machinery (Angus knew about as much about motorcycles as he did about magic, but Sirius was so passionate about the subject that listening to him was pretty interesting anyway). Sirius had pushed the sleeves of his sweater up a bit, and some sort of intricate design was now partly visible on his left forearm.

“Yeah,” said Sirius, pushing the sleeve further up to fully expose the tattoo. “Got it done last year in a shop in Nocturn Alley, for my birthday. Pretty cool, huh?” 

Angus leaned in closer to study the tattoo. It was done in black ink, a jumble of strange symbols, arranged not without some artistic sensibility. And it _moved_. 

“Oh my God, it moves!” he said, amazed, running his fingers over it. Sirius went pink. Angus realized what he had been doing and withdrew his hand like Sirius' arm had been scalding to the touch. “Sorry,” he muttered, embarassed. “That is really cool. What do those symbols mean?” 

“It's a runish translation of the Gryffindor motto,” said Sirius, not quite in his normal voice. “It means 'their daring, nerve and chivarly set Gryffindors apart'. James wanted me to get a drawing of a flying snitch, but I reckoned that would have looked a bit juvenile.” 

“That would be the tiny ball in Quidditch, right? The one they have to catch for the match to be over?” 

“Exactly!” said Sirius, beaming. His smile was dazzling. _Do you have any more tattoos?_ , Angus almost asked, with a vague hope that Sirius would answer _why, yes_ and lift his sweater over his broad shoulders to– 

“Look, it's snowing!” 

Angus turned around. It was, and quite heavily. He wondered if the masked arsehole still felt like flying around in that sort of weather. 

“The death eaters will probably have left,” said Sirius, walking over to the window. “But I don't know if it's wise for you to leave...” 

“I'm staying,” said Angus, very finally. His tone took even himself by surprise. “No point in walking back under this kind of snowfall, anyway,” he added, trying to sound a little less eager about the whole thing. 

Sirius smiled. 

“I'm glad you're staying. Say, how about I light a fire? It would be very cosy, what with the snow outside,” he said, pointing to the fireplace. Angus did a double take: the room had already been so nice and warm that he hadn't even noticed that there had been no fire. No radiators, either. Sirius' kind probably had no use for those. Angus swallowed nervously. 

“That would be lovely,” he said, bracing himself for the moment Sirius was once again going to subvert the natural order of things. “Maybe I can go fix another cup of tea in the meanwhile?” 

“Don't worry,” said Sirius, with a smirk. “I'm doing this by hand. I know it bothers you when I use magic... I've seen the way you flinch when I raise my wand,” he added, because Angus had been about to protest. “It's ok, I understand how unsettling it must be for you. I'm just going to use matches, the proper muggle way.” 

“Well, let me help you, then.” 

** 

“This is excellent,” said Sirius, staring contentendly at the roaring fire. “I reckon you end up enjoying things more if you have to work for them,” he mused, taking a sip from one of his strange teacups. It had taken him about half a second alone in the kitchen to get the water hot enough for tea, so he probably hadn't shied away from his wand tricks for that particular task, but Angus found it didn't bother him nearly as much if he wasn't forced to witness the magic being performed. 

“I've never seen anything like these teacups,” he said, having finally mastered the exact angle at which they needed to be held if you wanted to drink from them without dribbling tea all over yourself. “Where did you get them?” 

“I think my Uncle Alphard got them from Siam,” said Sirius, frowning at his cup in concentration. “Or someplace like that. He used to travel a lot, my uncle. Incredible bloke,” he added, with a fond smile. “My mother could barely stand him when he was alive – he was her brother – and then he went and left all his gold to me, and _that's_ when she blasted him off the family tapestry, too. There are quite a lot of holes in that tapestry, by now,” he added with a grin, in what was clearly an attempt at lightness. Angus felt a pang of sadness for him, so young and all alone in a messy flat with nothing but his dead uncle's old things and all those stories about how unpleasant his mother was. 

“Let's talk about something else,” urged Sirius, stretching his legs towards the fire. Somehow, he was now sharing the couch Angus had occupied all evening. “I keep going on and on about boring stuff. I wish I had some more fire whisky left,” he lamented, putting his cup down on the coffee table. 

“It's not boring at all,” said Angus. “I'm having a great time,” he said, resting his hand on Sirius' forearm. Sirius stared down at the hand and then up at Angus' face, an extremely endearing smile blooming on his handsome face. 

“Are you really?” he asked. 

Angus nodded, smiling back. He got rid of his teacup. 

“Me too,” said Sirius, in a very soft voice. The reflection of the fire flickered in his pretty grey eyes. “I really don't want this evening to end...” 

Angus, without thinking, leaned in and kissed him. 

It was a very weird kiss, very tentative. Angus felt that it was probably the first time kissing a bloke for Sirius, too ( _up yours, Remus_ , he briefly thought), and neither of them knew quite what to do with their hands. It didn't last very long. 

“Wow,” said Sirius, an ecstatic grin upon his face. “That was... wow.” 

Angus' heart was thumping in his chest. He was quite amazed by his own brass. 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Wow.” 

“Do you want to do it again?” said Sirius, his tone hopeful. 

“Yeah, of course. Sure. C'mere!” 

All in all, it didn't take them long to get the hang of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sirius *thinks* that's what his tattoo says, but he can't read runes at all, so who knows for sure? Also his birthday is in November, so he obviously had to wait until Christmas break to go to Knockturn Alley - he just doesn't think that would sound very impressive.


End file.
